


Door to Door

by CarlyChameleon



Series: Rag and Bone [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Dark Magic, End of the World, Gen, LGBTQ Character, Magic, Magic Revealed, Magical Realism, Monsters, Near Future, Original Fiction, Original Mythology, Original Universe, Random & Short, Shorts, Urban Fantasy, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24525199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarlyChameleon/pseuds/CarlyChameleon
Summary: Dorian, a bloodborn under the employ of The Prometheus Society, makes a stop at a potential supporter's residence.
Series: Rag and Bone [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772380
Kudos: 6





	Door to Door

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt as follows: It was midnight and the front door was standing wide open.

  
It was midnight and the front door was standing wide open. This was the part where a protagonist would have approached the rotting husk of the plantation style house step by creeping step as the tortured strings of violins in the score ratcheted up the tension. Dorian, however, liked to think they had the sense of a recurring side character. They parked themselves in a fold up chair directly on the path through the weed-choked lawn and under the oaks hung with Spanish moss, ten feet from the sagging front porch.

Crickets provided the only soundtrack once they’d sat and started a game on their tab. Enough of the previous night’s spring storm lingered in the air to justify their peacoat, maybe, on the off-chance anyone passed by. Of course, lower temperatures hadn’t really bothered Dorian since their conversion—the coat was just a favorite, and meant to lend more professional credibility than the endless supply of sweaters in their closet.

  
For the next three plus hours they never looked up. Not once. They didn’t need to. When the house’s lone occupant finally got fed up and conceded to curiosity, Dorian knew immediately. The coolness of the night sharpened into a true chill, biting even through the thick wool of their coat. They looked up from the glow of their tab, blinking to help their eyes readjust to the darkness. Tendons in their neck tensed and creaked—the oppression congealing the air made just lifting their head more of a chore than it should have been.

  
Stooped in the still-gaping doorway, something huge and hulking and darker than the shadows within watched with the lambent eyes of a nocturnal predator. Though their own gaze glinted similarly, Dorian couldn’t quite pin down the being’s shape. Possibly humanoid, but that could’ve been wishful thinking. Taking a deep breath, they caught a new scent among the previous list of damp earth, moldy wood, and new grass. A strange mix of mammalian musk with an undercurrent of musty reptile that made the hairs along their nape prickle with ancestral warning. Definitely something old that could manifest a physical form. Though they could see why all but the stupidest ghost hunting groupies avoided the place, Dorian relaxed slightly. A body could be pushed, pulled, fought, run away from. It was the other forms—the ones that could seep inside another’s and take it over, or affect matter without returning the favor—that put them on edge. Still, they made sure to rise from the fold up chair without any sudden movements. When they spoke, they kept their tone balanced between confidence and respect, as befit someone both representing an organization and relatively breakable.

  
“I’m sorry if I’m intruding. If you want me to leave, I’ll go right now and with the promise to never come back. But…if you’ll hear me out, I’ve been sent here with an offer.”

  
The eyes narrowed, but the heaviness of the air lifted a fraction. Dorian’s voice rushed into the receptive silence before impatience could spoil it. 

  
“I work for a group called The Prometheus Society, if names matter to you. What’s important is that we’re reaching out to as many folks as possible—sensitives, magical practitioners, werecreatures, astrals, cryptids, everyone. We want to hear your thoughts and feelings on the current laws and how human expansion has affected you, plus any other topics and grievances you want to bring attention to. Because while The Coven—” They paused as a seismic growl rattled the windows and had debris raining from the porch awning. “The Coven, who you obviously have opinions about, might have worked for some, but it doesn’t work for the rest of us. They want us to follow laws we had no say in writing. They expect us to hide in a world that keeps on shrinking and stick to old ways instead of adapt. The Society…well, we disagree.

  
“I’m not here to make promises. I can’t—we have nothing of offer at this point except an idea: a world where none of us are a secret anymore. One where magic can be openly used, studied, and developed. Where folks have the right to defend their native territories from human development because none of us should have to pay the price just to protect their blissful ignorance. Do we know how we’re going to make any of this a reality? Or how it’s going to pan out if we go through with any sort of plan? Nope. But that’s where you come in.”

  
Carefully reaching into one of their peacoat’s pockets, Dorian pulled out an envelope. It looked like they’d snatched it from the set a historical series stream: thick, heavy parchment trifolded and sealed with red wax. The Society’s logo, a simple, stylized flame, stood out smack in the center of it. The stamp had been custom made just for this whole undertaking. Kind of dramatic maybe? But if their ragged pack of Coven dropouts was going to kickstart a revolution they might as well do it with panache. 

  
“This is an official statement and invitation from our founder,” Dorian explained, holding the envelope up. “It’s got all the contact info you need, if you’re interested. We really need to hear from you and as many folks as possible if we’re going to avoid making the same mistakes. We want everyone to be part the change that happens. Not force you to follow decisions you had no part in.”

  
Though the next thirty seconds or so dragged into a trial of endurance, Dorian forced themselves to compete with the grass and trees on who could be the most still. The crickets had fallen dead silent, sensing impending motion. Just as Dorian had calculated how much time it would take to sprint back to the car, an arm emerged from the dark doorway. A massive, meaty arm covered in mottled scales and trailing stringy black hair like Spanish moss up to the elbow. The hand at the end—five-fingered, partially webbed, equipped with hooked claws—opened palm up. Reminding themselves that bloodborn were supposedly scary too, Dorian approached. The porch steps groaned under their weight but held. At that range, they could smell the green water of the bayous the being usually waded through mixed in with the heady proto-mammal scent. Maybe the rising sea and punishing hurricanes that had drowned this part of the country were the best things to happen in centuries as far as the house’s de facto owner was concerned. They hoped they got the opportunity to ask one night. 

  
Though the envelope quivered when they reached out and set it in the huge hand, Dorian managed to stare into the luminous eyes without flinching. Like the petals of a carnivorous flower, the scaly gray-green fingers closed around the invitation as completely as they would have a skull. 

  
None of that was the reason Dorian said, “Thanks.”

  
The blacker than black mass regarded them for another heartbeat before dipping with a nod. The titanic arm retreated back through the doorway with its offering. Dorian sensed rather than saw the being depart. Once the eyes turned away and the form melded into the shadows deeper within the house, the crushing aura of foreboding bled away. A few crickets tentatively strummed a few notes. When no calamity ensued, more joined in until a whole symphony was going again. Just like that, the site had reverted to nothing but a moldering reminder of the human monsters who had once roamed there. 

  
Dorian didn’t turn their back on the doorway until they’d reached the chair in the path. Partly out of practical concerns, but mostly because it was polite to be wary. Kind of told folks they were doing a good job? After folding the chair up they walked back to the car, listening to the rustle of overgrown grass and serenades of horny crickets. Safely back in the driver’s seat, they took a moment to open the assignment file on their tab and mark the job done.

  
“Twenty-seven down, seventy-three to go,” they said, and sighed. That was just in the leftovers of Louisiana too. Staging a revolution, especially door-to-door, definitely wasn’t as glamorous as history streams made them out to be. Anything worth doing, though, right? With another sigh, they closed the tab and started the car.


End file.
